


Advent calendar

by Shadowmun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: D/s undertones, Ex-Auror Harry Potter, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 13,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28074591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmun/pseuds/Shadowmun
Summary: Harry's secret admirer sends him a very personal advent calendar, thereby revealing identity and interest.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Undisclosed
Kudos: 53
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2020





	1. Fingertips

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely too late to the party, but I try to catch up.

It looked a little like a pensieve and a little like a collection of potions, stripped to a cauldron. It didn’t look dangerous, only odd. Harry didn’t know, what to do with it, but dared not touch it, before checking for dangerous magic.

He wasn’t as careful anymore, as he had been during the war, or while on active duty as an auror. Now, that he settled down, mostly doing trainings for the auror corps, it was only a basic remnant of distrust and borderline paranoia. But he wasn’t off the hook, would never be. Intently he studied the accompanying letter to the device, his brow raising by the second, as he read the strangely familiar writing.

_Dear Harry,_

_I haven’t forgotten you, and I am sure, you didn’t forget me. When I saw you recently, not that you would recognize me these days, I made a decision. I will try. I heard from a tradition in some countries, called advent calendar, and I gift you one. For each day until Christmas, I gift you a fantasy. And maybe, then you will know who I am. And maybe, you’ll gift me back._

_Your secret lover_

Now, that he checks, he can see little numbers on each of the bottles. Intrigued, he studies them, the swirling colors, the elegant script, the thoughtful little bows, tying each to the central unit. He really shouldn’t.

But it’s the most fascinating thing, that happened to him all year. He can’t find it in him, to decline. Some seconds, his fingers hover over the first bottle, before opening the bow, uncorking it, carefully pouring the snowy glistening liquid into the cauldron, as per the instruction attached.

Steam rises, as snowy and white and cold as the potion looked like…

1\. Day: Fingertips

Reluctantly he lets his fingers glide through the semi-liquid steam, before making up his mind and bending forward, diving into it, face first, eyes closed. Unlike with a pensieve, he feels no falling, no motion, just a certain change of… feeling. _He is surrounded by darkness, the smell of snow in the air, a snowflake glistening on its tumbling way down to the ground, his fingers and nose slightly burning from the cold. Someone is standing next to him, softly interlacing the fingers of his left hand with his right. He cannot say, who this is, it’s too dark to really see, the other person too wrapped up against the cold. All he can say, the other fingers are warm, long and slender, strong to the touch, but soft. The other hand of his counterpart reaches out for his face, hesitating, just slightly._ Harry jerks back, not because he wants, just on instinct and finds himself back in the room, out of the fantasy, out of the dream. No… Strangely, he wants to see, wants to feel. All of it, whatever it is. Determined, he lowers his head again, inhaling the liquid and falling back into the darkness _. The hand is still there, the fingers, hovering just before his face, until he allows himself to move, just a bit. Fingertips touch his cheek, follow the line of the jaw, the cheekbone, the brow, tentatively, as if someone blind would try to picture his face, to figure it out. It’s tender and sweet, half an invitation and half a caress. He raises his own hand, mirroring the move, touching the other face, cold from the snowy darkness, sharp lines, soft skin. Just the slightest hint of stubble on the jaw._ He exhales softly, lingers in the feeling, until he finds himself back in his living room. Strange.


	2. Glances

2\. Day: Glances

He didn’t open the next potion yesterday, although it has been tempting. The notes say, it wouldn’t work anyways, the bottles are timed. It does not really matter if it is true, he is willing to play by the rules, it is strangely relaxing to have a little mystery back in his life. Today’s potion glitters in all colors, changing and changing, like flickers of a stroboscope. He pours it in, where yesterday’s potion has now fully disappeared. It smells of ozone and alcohol, of sweat and heat. Curiously, he bows down.

_It is as dark as yesterday’s vision, but it’s a different darkness. This one is alive with energy, full of loud music, strangely hypnotizing rhythms. This one is filled with heat and flashes of light, with bodies, packed so tightly, they are hardly dancing, only moving around like puppets, jerking in the stroboscopic light._

_For a moment, he doesn’t understand, how this is even connected to his previous vision, until he feels it. Someone staring. Longingly. Glances, caressing his body almost reverently. The look of eyes, across the room, staying on him, no matter the darkness, no matter the frequent disturbance by bodies crossing the line of sight._

_He cannot see the other. As he is standing in the faint light of the bar, presented and open, the other is in darkness, only his – and yes, that much is sure – his eyes noticeable in the darkness. But his attention strangely takes hold. Sensitizes the skin, until it breaks goosebumps. Titillates the mind, until the longing gets infectious, contagious. He has known a lot of attention, but nothing ever came close to this, chaffing and raw and unwanted, and oddly enough extremely arousing._

As he jerks back, almost unwillingly disconnecting from the vision, he feels aware of the sudden heaviness in his body, warmth in his lap. Forcedly, he calms down. He will not have a wank on this… whatever it is. He won’t.


	3. A kiss

3\. Day: A kiss

Today’s potion is of a warm yellowish orange and radiates a faint light, ever since the morning. He circled around it all day, unsure, if he should use it, after yesterday’s experience. But since he can’t push it from his mind, can’t simply forget about it, he finally decides pouring it anyways, to at least have a glance.

_Warm, almost blinding sunlight washes over him, reaching ever part of him and bathing him in silent comfort. A man walks beside him, hands entwined. The light is too bright to quite make out some features, but the general appearance seems pleasant. Suddenly, the man stops, turns to him, dragging him around too. A hand cups his cheek, another his nape, warm lips, tasting of sea salt and cherries press against his gently, but insistent. A tongue flicks, playing with his lower lip, until he opens his mouth in surprise, than slides inside, coaxing his own into action. It is knowing, playfully and sweet, dancing around in a rhythm, that echoes everywhere in his body, heart, head… and lap._

His breath hitches, as he touches his lips with a finger, haunted by the fading feel of touches. Hesitating a moment, he ponders, then reaches into the vision again, savoring it, until it is truly and fully gone.


	4. Whispers

4\. Day: Whispers

It’s day four and he is already looking forward to his surprise, when he wakes up. Today’s potion looks especially promising, dark auburn but glittering, like liquid wood or the first fall’s chestnuts. It’s also thicker that the last days, pouring out of the bottle much slower and much richer, leaving behind the smell of fresh soil and autumnal forest. Curiously he encounters the fantasy.

_He is greeted by exactly that; a rainy, cold forest, colored leaves everywhere, oddly pleasant smells of mushrooms and water. Beside him, hands joined, walks his companion, a hood pulled deep against the drizzle. He can only hear his laughter, not see his face, but just now, he doesn’t mind. Their hands, sharing one pocket, are warm and familiar, their steps in sync._

_He feels the other step behind him, now placing hands in both his pockets, effectively pinning him in position, pearly laughter beside his ear. His own hood is pulled away, as a face nuzzles into his nape, hot breath tickles his skin. Slowly, the focus wanders around, leaving his neck, in favor of his left ear, making him shudder and roll his shoulders. He can’t help but laugh, when a tongue wetly sticks into the lobe, followed by another gush of hot air. His breath hitches, as muttered words follow, telling him, he is beautiful. Explaining, how much precious he is._

_When he turns his head, the other is gone, changing position and repeating the teasing by the other ear, leaving him helplessly giddy and turned on._

His resolve not to pleasure himself after the vision, is naught. He can’t possibly stand a whole day like that, hot and flush and altogether tense. There is some cruelty in this gift, though it’s not a malevolent one. He knows, he will be ashamed, once he knows, whose presence made him so needy, but knowing, this will come, he decides to at least enjoy the ride.


	5. Undress

5\. Day: Undress

Today’s potion is softly whitish. Not the snowy beauty of the first, more like silk or milky tea. It strangely reminds him of dreams, half remembered, of skin, to pale to be natural, sheepishly noticed, guiltily included in fantasies, he dares not repeat. It was long ago, when he was still innocent enough to have such fantasies. Nowadays he tries not to close his eyes unprepared. But still, the potion intrigues him. He removes it from its ribbon, but does not immediately empty it, instead studies the swirling liquid a bit. Would it feel as soft on his skin as it looks? Goosebumps appear on his skin from the very thought. How long has it been, that someone has touched him on purpose, that he let someone that close? But this goes to far in a rather dark direction. He stops the train of thought right there and uncorks the bottle, carefully pouring the whitish solution, then diving in, impatiently.

_It’s just a bedroom, as he looks around, old, worn wood and white linen, smelling nothing if not clean and homely. A bedroom of fantasy, a bedroom, he never owned, yet always yearned for. Soft evening light from a large window bathes the room in shades of orange and yellow and red and the last beams of sunlight warm his face and the sheets of the large double bed. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in the sense of safety, when he feels soft hands touch his shoulder from behind._

_His waking self would turn, rather violently so, but here is no sense of danger, no feeling of a threat present. The hands mean him no harm, are gentle and sweet. Softly, they reach around him, unbutton first his robe, then his shirt, pulling both away, ever so carefully. He looks down himself, when the undershirt is removed, taking note of a plentiful of scars with sad resignation. He has realized long ago his skin will never resemble anything beautiful ever again. The hands, though, whitish like the potion and slender, don’t seem to mind, they start at his shoulders and slowly descend over his chest and abdomen, sometimes flowing over the scars, sometimes following them almost reverently._

_Once more, he loses control over his breathing, the pure sensation of being touched, more so, being touched without reserve, brings him almost to tears, despite the fact, it also hits on his libido. He leans into the embrace of the warm body behind, closing his eyes, panting helplessly._

_He doesn’t even flinch, when the hands come to rest at his waistline, long fingers unbuckling his belt patiently. The hands don’t linger, sensitive to his torment, gentle, as the body behind slowly moves down, removing shoes, socks and trousers in one go. Soft kisses are placed on the small of his back and once stripped, his butt cheeks, as the slender hands, more caress than simply strip his legs, removing the last remaining barrier between his darker skin and the pale one._

He is shivering cold, when he comes back. And tired. So tired. He didn’t want this to end. Didn’t want to be thrown back into a reality, where only two kinds of people exist. Those, how flinch at the sight of his scars and those, who worship them.


	6. Bath

6\. Day: Bath

Today he was reluctant to use the potion. For once, the very pink, girly color repulses him slightly. It just doesn’t seem very fitting. And then… yesterday’s vision left him pretty shaken. For hours he was torn between arousal and sadness and the cold feeling has not left him yet, even after a good night’s sleep. On the other hand, it probably can’t get much worse, and he needs his concentration this afternoon, for he will lead a class about shielding charms then. He needs to get it out of his system before that.

Determined he tips the potion over and studies it intently, before submitting to it.

_He finds himself in a situation much alike the one he left yesterday. He is still naked and comfortably warm. The bedchamber though, has been replaced by an unconventional bathroom. It is steamy and warm, somewhat dark too, only lanterns light the wood-paved room and its centerpiece, a big, wooden tub. Within it, there is hot water, crowned with sloshing foam, resembling the color of the potion. Again, he can feel a body behind him, this time, he is sure, he is slightly taller than his own, though less muscular, thanks to his extended and continued auror training. The other places a hand between the shoulder blades, for stabilization, before slowly pouring pleasantly warm water first over one, then the other shoulder and spreading it with a slightly rough sponge. Its scent rises and reminds him of something, he cannot quite name yet. Apples, pine, herbs, just a hint of potion-ingredients. A familiar combination, he cannot place, no matter, how hard he thinks of it. It’s a pleasant one though and he relaxes into it, while his body is lovingly lathered up and then rinsed a second time. Only then, he is gently pushed forwards, facing the tub. Just as he sinks into the warm, soothing waters, a door clicks. His company is gone… another time without the chance to get a glance._

_He cannot quite find the strength to bother, as the warm water wrings every tension out of him, dulls even the lasting pains, left over by the most severe of his past injuries. His breath calms, as he leans back._

The calm relaxation stays with him, when he is back into his own mind, conjuring a fond smile on his face. He feels rarely that good, these days… and he is happy he did this in the morning, it will follow him all day. Today’s potion is certainly a gift.


	7. Blindfold

7\. Day: Blindfold

Today’s potion is dark, soft, velvety, the color of a starry winter sky. He pours it without hesitation, by now used to the familiar ritual. Then, he inhales, curious of the smell, but today, there is none, which is a little odd and slightly disappointing.

He still dives in as soon as it feels safe, curious, what is about to happen.

_It seems to be the new normal, that he is naked, and he gets more and more comfortable with it. Today he is in a tasteful study, lit by a burning log in the fireplace and some candles, thick rugs cover the ground and high armchairs stand along the walls. A pale slender figure sits in one of them, the trousers expensive, most of the uncovered upper body and the face hidden in the shadows. He stands in full few by the fire and feels once more the appreciative look of the other grazing him._

_“Do you trust me?”, he hears the other softly ask, the intonation precise, each word perfect rounded, the voice again leaving the impression of something familiar, but forgotten. He could nod frivolously. This is a dream, no consequences come out of it. But it feels wrong, so he considers it seriously. Closing his eyes and thinking. Only, when he is sure, of himself, he nods. “Please, turn around, then.” He does, this time deliberately missing the chance to catch a glimpse. He can hear the other standing up, drawing closer, touching his shoulder blades, some soft fabric stretched between his hands. Then, he reaches up, around Harry and places it around his face, carefully tucking and shifting, until it lies firmly against his eyes. He ties the knot behind Harry’s head, adding just enough pressure to it. Finally, he places a small, rewarding kiss against the back of his neck, smiling into the skin._

He gasps, when he comes to, the intimacy overwhelming. Absentmindedly he strokes the back of his head, still feeling the lips on his skin, even through the more material sensation of his fingers. Again, he feels breathless and speechless, again, he longs for the next day, the next potion. This is intoxicating. Addictive.


	8. Embrace

8\. Day: Embrace

Today’s potion is almost colorless, only a slight turquoise tint shows in the transparent liquid. He sloshes it around a bit, finding the glittery residue on its bottom gives it a new quality. When he pours it, there is a soft crackling noise from it, and the scent… He inhales deeply, though he cannot name what it is. Yet another smell, familiar and alien at once. Another human being maybe? Soap, clean clothing, what else? There is no doubt though, that it smells good, and he doesn’t hesitate anymore.

_Presumably, he is back in the study, he can hear a fire cackling and soothing smell of wood and smoke and leather is around him. All he can see, though, is a faint glint, where the fireplace must be. The blindfold is still there, and it caresses his face almost like a lover. Someone else though, maybe his pale counterpart caresses his front with sure, firm hands, never even remotely fazed by any of his more… unique features. Instead, he concentrates on carefully relaxing every single muscle to be found under the surface._

_Soon, he can’t help but softly moan into the touch that feels so intense on his skin, when there is nothing else to concentrate on. His counterpart’s hands are knowing, strong and secure, as they now roam his sides, tickle the ribs, stroke the arms. When they drop to his hips, he feels himself pulled closer, until another body is pressed against him, skin on skin, warm and smooth. He breathes in the smell, as his own hands are finally finding a mark. He lets the wander aimlessly, just basking in the sensations of soft skin on the fingertips._

_It feels strange, though. Albeit the skin is soft, incredibly pleasant to the touch, he can feel small rough lines, not unlike the patterns on his own skin on the other. A skin, as scarred as his own, a man, probably having a similar lifestyle, at the very least some similar problems. It feels good to embrace him, be encircled in return. Hands wandering, breath ghosting, short-cut soft, freshly washed hair brushing by his face._

He remains thoughtful, even outside the vision. He isn’t aware of anyone, fitting the description he has figured out by now. He repeats to himself, counting on the fingers: male, pale skin, scars, good personal hygiene, intelligent and considerate. The more he thinks of it, the less he can say, who this “secret lover” could be. Somehow, though, he is confident to say, he will enjoy the show.


	9. Marks

9\. Day: Marks

The next potion sports the dark color bordering green and blue, sometimes found in the late evening sky, just before night falls, mixed with some lighter, reddish swirls. It looks much less trustworthy than the last few to Harry and for the first time in days, he asks himself, if this is the best idea and puts it of for the evening, after training, lectures at the office, a good meal. In the end, he almost forgets it and goes back, just before heading to bed, pouring it so hastily, he almost spills some.

Curls rise from it like thick banks of smoke and seem to reach for him, like insubstantial tentacles, putting him off even more. On the other hand: what is he, if not courageous? So, he bends down.

_Immediately he finds himself lying on a bed, crisp almost stiff sheets surrounding him, his counterpart kneeling over him, his hair tickling his face. Still, their bodies are divided by the thin fabric of the other’s trousers, still his own body is unclothed. And still, he feels incredibly safe. Strangely appreciated. This time, his would-be-lover buries his hands in his unruly hair, carding through it with pleasure and abandon, while kissing him deeply, putting more effort into it, than any person, who ever kissed him before. Breathlessly he lies back, willingly submitting to the comforting tiredness in his body. His companion’s lips soon leave his mouth, kiss at the corner of his mouth, his jaw. Find their way, down to his neck and his collar bone. He jerks, feeling the sudden presence of teeth, just this side of painful, the sucking and nipping, here and there, all along the collar bones. He can imagine the bruises, it leaves, stark, screamingly reddish love bites, marks, possessive and clear, a distinct contrast, even against his dark sun-burnt skin. He can’t find it in himself to resist, it feels to good, to real, to perfect. He falls into the feeling, deeper and deeper._


	10. Wine

10\. Day: Wine

A good thing, the extraordinary advent calendar stays next to the couch in his small living room, for this was, where he woke in the morning, the lingering feel of touches, kisses, bites, still on his skin. It gives him a strangely itchy, needy feeling, he can’t even shake after a searing hot shower. Does his secret donor even know, what this is to him? How it gets under his skin?

This is not entirely pleasant anymore, yet he cannot simply stop. Something draws him back, again and again. And of course, he knows, he just does not want to admit. He is lonesome and touch starved, and this touches some sore spots. With a hammer. At least, this day’s potion does not look like a bruise, but has the color of a very expensive wine. After yesterday’s experience, he again keeps it for the evening, though not that late, this time. The couch does evil things to his back.

And this time, he tries to prepare himself for the worst, while he empties the bottle and then embraces the vision.

_The couch he must lie on now, however is all but difficult. It feels like a cloud spelled into a cushion, giving way, just enough to feel supporting and soft. He is slightly propped up and sandwiched between the backrest and his counterpart’s body, lying all along his side. Smug laughter tickles his cheek and then, some slightly more viscous than water is dribbled down on his chest, the droplets slowly descending along the lines on his chest. The other glides down, licking and kissing them away, one by one, leaving traces of molten lava on his mind. This tongue, these lips. He can’t help but groan, whenever they hit a sensitive spot. This feels entirely to perfect to be legal._

_The process repeats itself several times, leaving him eager and needy all over again, before his would-be-lover removes himself from his side a bit, hovering over him. Seconds tick by, slowly, until the other’s mouth is on his again, opening and releasing almost oily thick, fruity and tangy liquid. He gulps it down and gasps, as alcohol burns a warm path down his throat and into his stomach. His tongue gets teased into a fascinating game, seeking even the last tasty remnants of the surely expensive wine._

_Even this first gulp makes him feel quite drunk, and it’s not the last one fed to him this way, slowly making him hotter and more drunk and less controlled each time, until he is willing and eager and… devastating, knowing, this will go no further._

Waking up is like a cold shower after a bad night. It neither removes the tiredness nor the need, just leaves him grumpy and dissatisfied and miserable. He can’t even find sleep easily, mourning the loss of something he didn’t really have… but wants so desperately.


	11. Thorns

11\. Day: Thorns

This day’s potion is dark green, with a strange red shine, and by now, he isn’t sure he wants this anymore. It is great, while it lasts, each potion a new escape from his just now, rather dull daily life. But once finished, he falls all the deeper into the abyss of loneliness, that usually tugs at him around Christmas, when everyone else is with their family.

Of course, he knows, he has had it worse. It should be fine, would be fine by now, but he still feels empty, incomplete at times, as if something was missing, no matter, how many friends come over for new years eve or invite him for Christmas dinners.

But maybe, he is doing this entirely wrong. Surely it’s less meant as deep push into his psychological drama, and more as sophisticated wank material. His secret admirer is male, in any case, and from his – admittedly small – dating experience with gay man, he can say, there a quite a lot of rather shallow creatures. Seeing it like that, he might even enjoy this game. So he hopes, as he pulls the plug, ready for the worst.

_This time, he must be in a garden of some kind, still blindfolded, for the air is full of flowery smells and small insect noises, he sits on a padded bench, his counterpart kneeling before him. It is still strange to feel him so intimately, close by, and not knowing, who he is, what he looks like. Today, his would-be-lover gently opens his palms, places them on his knees, and places kisses all over them, paying attention to each single digit. When he is finished, he places a prickly stem in each palm and closes both very carefully. Leaning over, he puffs small streams of air against his willing victim’s ears and then tells him: “Hold onto it, when it gets too much. Let the pain ground you.”_

_Then he starts to attack his mouth with yet unknown intensity, leaving him breathlessly, willingly surrendering to the pure white-hot desire, that spreads all over him. But it’s true, whenever he loses track, feels lost, the pure, simple pain of clenching his fists around the rose stems, grounds him, brings him back, just enough to consciously feel…_

When he’s back into himself, he does not even try to deny himself a simple fast release. It’s not enough, far from enough, but it helps the initial need. This day’s gift will be a constant companion for his personal time for a long time…


	12. Wall

12\. Day: Wall

If he had started with today’s potion, he probably wouldn’t have started at all. It is dull grey and looks as interesting as a plain wall. In addition, there is very little substance in this bottle, making it seem quite pitiful. But by now, maybe it is the very much needed break from more intense adventures… Or not… for if he really wanted, he could always stop.

Instead, he pours another potion, its slated grey barely visible in the cauldron, until the steam rising from it, engulfs him, pushing him into another vision.

_For the first time, since he faces the challenges of his gift naked, it is not comfortably warm around him, but quite chilly. Unsure he is standing in an open space, nothing around him to tell him, where he is and what is around him. It feels a little scary, but before he can pull down the blindfold or reach actual fear, his counterpart is there, gently embracing him again, the warm skin so much more intense in the cold surrounding. The kisses on his skin feel different too. Less like taking possession and more like… worship. Every touch of the lips, every swirl of the tongue on his skin sends new shivers over him, he cannot decide, if it is because or despite them being so soft, almost airy. The other is so gentle with him, building up a sense of anticipation, making his breath hitch and his body tremble._

_On some unknown signal the pace changes. Where there were only ghosts of real touch, now there are firm hands, stroking his body, so busy and skilled that it feels, like they are everywhere. In his sensitized state, he is barely able to handle it._

_He moans helplessly, lets himself be guided backwards, finally touching something else, the rough, cold surface of a stone wall. Relieved by something to hold on, he claws his fingers into the surface, holding onto it, while hands and lips thoroughly drive him into insanity without ever doing something unquestionably convictable._

When he comes back, he sits there, panting, unable to even catch his breath, even touch himself. His skin tingles, needing to be touched so badly. He runs his own hands over the surface, massaging the worst areas borderline painfully, but to no avail.

Helplessly he bursts in laughter. So much for a break. This is just… so much.


	13. Ropes

13\. Day: Ropes

Today’s potion has the color of faded straw or canvas, warm, broken, not impressive, but soothing. After yesterday’s spectacular effects, he is distrustful of the outer impression, and probably rightly so. The color up until now, did not help a lot. The scent has been more helpful, up until lately and this one smells promising, he realizes, as he uncorks the bottle. A strong impression of summer spills out into his living room, when the aromas of freshly cut grass, sunbaked earth and heated asphalt unfold. The smell is a gift all by itself, conjuring images of bathing children, dancing dirt devils, summer days out somewhere in the fields, daydreaming and basking in the warmth. Another would-be memory he can barely connect with, no matter how much he wants to. Another thing robbed from his life by circumstance.

He refuses to get depressed again and dives into the vision with angry determination.

_Only to be hit by even more of the same measure. Sunbeams, warming his body, as he lies on a blanket somewhere safe, his counterpart sitting next to him, watching him, obviously. Bowing down, to whisper, sensually: “No more coaxing. Ok? This is about trust. I want you to trust me. I want you to keep your eyes closed and let me go on.” With that, the blindfold, kept for days, is removed. For now, there is little temptation to open his eyes. Even with closed lids, the sun is blindingly, almost painfully bright. He nods affirmatively and basks in the feeling of warmth and safety, while the by now familiar hands roam his body, stroking up and down in experienced motion. He has no idea, how much influence he has on the progress of it all, but for the first time he is close to trying. But just, as he tries to turn around, the voice is back, stronger this time. “No… Please stay. Let me have this.” Reluctantly he sinks back, unable to process the implications, while his counterpart slowly takes one, then the other hand and places them over his head, before tying them together with a thin rope. It’s rough, but soft, chaffs just enough to remind him of its existence. He could rip it apart if needed, but doesn’t feel like it, once his counterpart returns to kissing him, straddling his body. This time, he can kiss back and does so eagerly, exploring the others mouth and finding, it tastes of cherries and herbs and something grassy. He smiles into the kisses and sinks back, willingly submitting._

_“You are so beautiful”, his counterpart whispers and sighs… “Each day it’s harder to let you go…”_

With a jerk he is back to himself, shocked by the revelation, that obviously, this isn’t so one-sided as he originally anticipated. Or did he just get it wrong, and the creator of this just meant his… fantasies? Or whatever? He is confused and uneasy but turned on like hell. If the potions weren’t timed, he would dive right back in, he needs this, he wants this… so badly. It’s another eleven days and he can’t decide, if this is a good or a bad thing. Or both, or neither.


	14. Wax

14\. Day: Wax

Today’s potion is shimmering softly, not quite red, not pink anymore either. He gets the odd impression, the bottle feels warm to the touch, which none before did, but he shrugs, and goes ahead, almost desperately. He had a bad day, and needs something to calm body and senses, after almost fighting with a recruit, who deemed him “overrated” and his classes “useless”. Under other circumstances, he would simply told him to leave and try without, but unfortunately it is not his decision, who attends the classes, and admittedly, considering the quality of the blokes shielding charms, he certainly needed it, no matter, what he thought. So he had to be the grown-up, again, and ignore the hell out of the guy, no matter how much his blood boiled over the insults hurled in his direction. Compared to this, his personal little Christmas hell seems almost welcoming. It smells of candles and fire and home, and he dives in deeply.

_Looks around. A living room. Candles on the wallboards, apples and oranges in a bowl on the table, cinnamon and clove in the air. The voice, again. “Are you ready? Close your eyes.” It is surprisingly easy to follow the command. “Kneel.” No pressure in the voice, merely suggestion. He feels his counterpart come closer, brushing by, trusting on him, as he does on the other. He sinks down, keeping a comfortable posture, breathing in the warm air, as warm fingers comb through his hair, cuddle his neck, almost affectionately. He feels the other squat before him, steeling a kiss from his smiling lips, cupping his face, feels himself lean into the touch. Those long fingers burn his skin so perfectly, ease the pains of his mind. He is beyond the question, how in all heavens, he can so simply relax into this._

_He has been through enough denial in his life to understand it, and not bother with it anymore. He wants this. No matter the price. It thrills him, turns him on, comforts him in ways, he dares not fully understand. He knows, it will hurt. In here, out there. It will hurt. That doesn’t make it less real or less precious._

_“Ready?”, the voice asks full of reference and he nods, pushing a hoarse “yes” from his dry throat. Something splashes onto the skin of his shoulders, thick and viscous, as small flowers of pain explode. Strangely though, the pain is comfortable, no… more than just that. Addictive. He longs for more._

_“Ok?”, the other asks, and he nods, shivering._

_“Please.” Just a whisper, for he does not trust his voice. The other obliges, slowly lining his back and chest with small pins of intensely pleasurable pain, forcing groans and moans out of him._

_“Perfect. You are doing just perfect.”_

_His lips tremble and he struggles to understand. He is doing NOTHING; it is done to HIM… and it is… perfect._

Another end, another disappointment. It felt so good, and now it’s gone, the moment over, the potion spent. With closed eyes, he lingers on the feeling, unwilling to let go just yet, staying, until he can’t feel anything anymore. God… this isn’t real, how can it feel so much better than his daily life? Really, this is a drug, and the only reason, he doesn’t stop, right there… it’s only ten more days… ten more days…


	15. Shivers

15\. Day: Shivers

Today has been a cold day, and he still shivers, when he comes back home and inside, after an extended flight training with some overzealous recruits, eager to impress the famous, no legendary, Harry Potter. Not one of them is in any state to do so. Do they play Quidditch at school anymore? Where are the likes of Ginny and Cedric? Of Oliver and, to be fair, Malfoy? Surely, they can’t be all into professional Quidditch these days?

Frustrated he showers and makes himself a strong tea, before sitting down in his living room, studying today’s ice blue potion. After this day, it doesn’t look so tempting anymore, just reminds him of the wintery sky with all its mercilessly freezing gusts of wind and faded blue shade. He would gladly exchange it for yesterday’s potion twice again. Since this is not an option, though, he pours the new one reluctantly and waits for what is to come.

_The warmth welcoming him, almost contradicts smell of cold, he thought he sensed, just a minute ago. It’s overwhelming and almost suffocating, but in a strange sense still comfortable. The room, the same as yesterday, is just filled with it, with the smell of beeswax and warmth, of yesterday’s adventure, of… him. And of the other, probably._

_He feels compelled to go on, where he left off, kneeling, closing his eyes, submitting to the sensations, to the game, he plays, no… they play. He feels his own breath hitch slightly, as soon as he feels the other’s presence, a hand, slightly brushing his shoulder. He bites his lips and suppresses a tremble. Already hot and willing, already hooked._

_“So keen…” The other’s hand cups his jaw, a thumb strokes his lips. Breath ghosts over his face, lips, just barely not touching. “So good. I wish you were mine.”_

_Maybe I will, he thinks, but does not say so. It’s too much to admit so openly. Especially, since he still doesn’t know, who the other is. Instead, he slowly leans forward, just slightly. Blindly, he cannot aim, so his lips do not meet the other’s, only their cheeks touch, but his counterpart steadies him there, shoulder against shoulder, faces so close, almost like dancing._

_A whispered “Accio”, an outstretched hand, he can feel the movements of his counterpart, them being so close, the other’s hands on his body. Suddenly, something else is there, between his fingers. Cold and wet, slowly gliding along his arm, from the hand up towards the shoulder. Waterdrops spring from it, dance and tingle along his skin, before dropping from his fingers. The other moves, and a hot tongue laps up all remaining fluid, before placing an ice cube between his lips. “Hold still.”_

_He does, sucking in the water, melted from the sliver of ice, while all over his body, similar ones are placed, moved, pressed against his skin, until small puddles of meltwater accumulate in every possible dip on his body. It’s cold and hot at once and he shivers, more than just slightly, breaking in goosebumps, cold and yet, unwilling to end it._

_The other lets him, for a time, carefully checking, not just relying on his continued positive answers to the repeated question, if it is still ok. His counterpart obviously knows, he tends to go too far. Removing all ice and replacing it with some soft, oily substance is only the first step. Next, he feels the other slowly massaging it into his skin, spreading comfortable warmth. And finally, a soft blanket is placed over his shoulders, carefully wrapped around him. Once more, the other draws close, embracing him. “Goodnight, sleep well.”_


	16. Blow

16\. Day: Blow

It’s almost Christmas, and the weather is a misery. Instead of snowing like it should, it’s raining heavily. Everything outside is wet, gloomy and miserable. And everything inside too, he must admit. He has been Christmas shopping, surprisingly early, this year, finding little things for all friends he has kept over the years, no matter their or his present circumstances. Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna… Each year, it is a pain, not because he doesn’t want to gift them things – he very much does – but because of the missing names. Sirius, Remus, Tonks. Each year, he choses extra carefully for George, because… well, just because.

But the only things, he really enjoys buying, are for the kids. He’s always the favorite “uncle”, for he knows, what they would want. And spares no effort to get it. It still hurts. Each single time. It’s not as bad as Halloween, but worse than anything else. Maybe today, he needs his calendar more than ever… He unties the potion marked with 16, thinking little of the silvery grey color, although the feeling, he is missing something creeps up again. Maybe he will understand later…

_He remembers his dorm in the Gryffindor tower, during his school years, and this is a slight variation of it. Not the same, not quite perfect, but close enough to understand the reference. For a moment, he reminisces the times, he returned there, like coming home after long summers of hardship, mostly safe, at least safer than anywhere else in a world gone mad. Sadly, another home, he couldn’t keep, in the end, lost to the time, like every familiar place, every family, he ever had. Should he be sad in here? Will the other even appear, when he is?_

_He need not worry. The voice is always there, gentle, firm, settling. “Get onto the bed, get comfortable. Close your eyes.” He sits down, bouncing slightly on the mattress, lies down. The pillow is too soft in just the same way, he remembers it, so he positions himself on his back, where that doesn’t matter much, then closes his eyes, expectantly. A kiss is his first reward, no more than a fast peck on the lips, but promisingly tasting of caramel._

_“You’re sad.”_

_He nods, trying to assess his facial expression and failing to see, what betrayed him._

_“No good memories?” The voice now teases, softly, but the other sugars the blow with soft licks down his body._

_He shrugs, already less moody, and answers: “Too many… Tainted and poisoned by pain and loss.” The other should know, or he doesn’t know him at all._

_“Time to make new ones, then.”, the other answers, placing a small lick to his navel and a nip to his hip. When he jerks, he receives a small swat to the thigh, sufficiently explaining, what is expected of him. Obediently he stays still and enjoys the moment, while the other circles his body, seemingly aimlessly, placing kisses, love bites, licks, varying placement and timing, until he can think of nothing else but the next touch, the next moment. Only then, savoring his eagerness, the other settles, easing the lean body between his more muscular legs._

_The first gush of hot air, deliberately breathed over his lap, makes him almost hiccup, trembling in anticipation. Then, he feels himself engulfed by hot, sweet wetness. A hand cups his balls, softly squeezing, just right, while the other’s mouth and lips and tongue just…_

_Hell, he has had his share of blowjobs, both passive and active, but he cannot even begin to describe, what he feels. What the other does to him. It is not just the action. It’s the situation, it’s the anticipation, it’s the combination of sensations, smell, and feeling, and sounds._

_But he holds back, if soon only by the skin of his teeth. He wants this to last for as long as humanly possible… It’s to perfect to let go._

The moment, he is back at himself, he goes for a shower. A long one, his length hard and screaming with need.


	17. Rules

17\. Day: Rules

Today, he takes his time, caring for himself, he is not yet ready for another trip through heaven and hell, and having time, he decides to allow himself some much needed maintenance. A thorough shave, taking time, not to cut himself, a long bath, until he feels fully warm and squeaky clean. His hair, he admits, could use a cut, but he won’t try that himself, and since it is very reliable to look unruly anyways, he just combs it through and pushes it into shape as good as possible.

In the end, he is surprised, he put more effort into this little session, than in his usual preparation for the Christmas dinners. After that, there is little more possibility to stall, unless he wants to face the fact, he does it and so he sits down and studies the little botte, ingrained with the number 17. Its color reminds him distinctively of Slytherin green, a probably unwanted but somewhat funny realization. His childhood alter ego might have found the potion so revolting he might not have used it at all, but by now, he is far beyond house animosities. He has seen Slytherin fight on his side guarding his back as steadfast as any Gryffindor could hope for. He has seen Ravenclaws perplexed and Hufflepuffs ceasing to work. He has seen Gryffindors waver.

So, let it be Slytherin green, for all he cares. He pours it anyways, ready for everything.

_Yet, he didn’t expect that… Slytherin commons room in the dungeons, garnered with a big fireplace and high comfortable armchairs, both of which weren’t present, when he last checked. He can see pale skin in the shadow of the armchair next to the one he is sitting in. A long, slender hand on the armrest, precisely manicured fingers, a signet ring, the crest hidden in the shadow. Only lords and heirs apparent were such. Strange… he seldom meets nobility outside the very official context of the ministry, where he tries to be as formal and noncommittal as possible. Strange too, that today is so different from everything before. The by now well-known voice starts talking, very tentatively. “Before we go on, we need to talk about rules. Rules for you, rules for me. By now, you might guess, they are not necessarily the same.” How, in Merlin’s name, can such simple words leave him breathless within a minute? He thinks of all the not quite symmetrical situations of the last days, and exhales, distantly aware, he should be listening and not thinking… not like that. Or should he? The voice remains silent. Waiting. He feels watched, appreciated. With a gulp he nods and hums his approval._

_“First and before everything else, I want you to know, you can always refuse. It might seem obvious, since you can always leave, but this tends to be… captivating. I want you to be aware, you can tell me, if something is wrong. That you can always decide not to. So, in short: I can do nothing you don’t want me to do.” The warm murmur of the speech is soothing, relaxing, nurtures a warmth in his gut, he didn’t feel for ages. Again, he feels compelled to nod, not trusting his voice._

_He leans back, grounding himself against the edges of the armrest and seat._

_“You, if you are willing to go on, will have a more elaborate set to follow.” He can hear fabric shifting, still seeing very little. “First…” One finger is presented on the armrest next to his, “you will only look to the ground unless ordered otherwise. You will close your eyes, if ordered, and only open, again, when I allow it. Understood?”_

_He grins. Another round of hide and seek. Why not. “Agreed.”_

_“Second…” Another finger. “You will answer any question, preferably with yes or no. If needed, I don’t know might also be acceptable.”_

_This is less simple. Too many secrets, he wishes or has to keep. “Sorry, can’t.”_

_The other sighs and adjusts: “Any question regarding our… encounters, then.”_

_It’s a grey zone, but what isn’t under the circumstances, so he nods again, a little more at ease._

_“Third, if given a command, you have exactly two options: obey or leave.” The voice now gains almost alarmingly arousing intensity, a fact that leaves him completely defenseless out of pure surprise._

_He shrugs, nodding._

_“Fourth, and last: you can moan, scream, squirm, clench your hands, or any other means necessary, but you cannot come, unless I explicitly allow it, or this ends for any given day.”_

_And like that, he is back at yesterday, bracing himself against the inevitable, stretching the moments for as long as humanly possible. This time, his nod is just too eager. He blushes, as the other laughs, teasingly._

_“No reason to be ashamed. If this wasn’t right for us… there were no reasons to go on.”_

Back on his couch and filled with anticipation for tomorrow and disappointment for the abrupt end today, he can’t help but ponder, what exactly is wrong with him. And when exactly it went all wrong. There is enough trauma in his past to untether anyone. Only, this feels insane… but not mad.


	18. Edges

18.Day: Edges

After yesterday’s rather strange experience, it feels odd, even passing the calendar, suspiciously eying today’s potion, a strikingly electric blue mixture. What is in there that made the other hesitate? Carve out some basic agreement first? There is but one way to find out and it is strangely appeasing to know someone looks out for his well-being, albeit in a twisted way.

He smiles, as he pours the potion, fascinated by the way, it sticks to the bottle, as if mocking him. Curiously inhaling, he searches for a smell, but is greedily sucked into the vision, before he is quite prepared for it.

_If you can prepare as such for the sudden change of distant interest to raging arousal. Like the sudden slurry movement of being sucked into a different reality by a portkey. Like hitting a wall at full speed. Or rather the opposite. He can’t really perceive the room, as he is too preoccupied with the perception of his own body, heavy on a mattress, all limbs fixed immovable, bathed in sweat and the smell of growing desire._

_He can hear the soft demand: “Close your eyes”, and obeys, almost instinctively, feeling the other man, before he even joins him on the bed, weighing down on the mattress. The first touch pushes all air out of him, although feathery soft. There is something commanding about the other, that speaks directly to his sub-conscience, ignoring any protests from thought or ratio. It’s just a hand on your ribs, his senses provide, but the libido begs to disagree, as the fingers slowly roam his skin, exploring his body gently but merciless. Magic leaves soft traces on him, invisibly tattooing his skin with tendrils of need._

_For a time, this seems bearable, even pleasant, but those clever fingers, knowing hands wander over him, exposing his secret desires with ease. Encasing his arms, his throat, his nipples. Before the other even reaches for his groin, he is burning up in flared fire, clinging with pure willpower and fingernails to constraint. When the fingers softly squeeze his balls, before encircling his raging erection, he is reduced to sobbed begging. His body arches needily into the touches, his hips buckle on their own, seeking friction._

_The other’s soft voice is back, soothing him, inexplicable easing him away from the urge of instant release. “It’s okay, you are doing so well. You are so beautiful, aroused and willing like this. I could wathc you forever…”_

_It still burns like fire, he is still one step away from coming. Yet, the other helps him into a fragile balance, caught between searing madness and the cool comfort of this honeyed voice. He wants to hear it, wants to bask in it, wants to be appreciated, praised,_ loved. _He wants to stay…_

_He almost sobs, when he tumbles into the climax, unable to stop it, flushed away by pure primal energy._

Panting, he feels, how his body is just as heavy, just as hot as in his vision. Somehow, it makes him sad. He feels, he has failed, he doesn’t want to fail twice, this day… He goes for a cold shower, willing himself back to the new normal, eager for tomorrow’s vision and afraid at the same time.


	19. Tongues

19\. Day: Tongues

The day was basically another catastrophe. The weather was nicer today, lots of sunshine, though very cold, but the ministry had their yearly Christmas celebration today and expected everyone – especially him – to attend. So since late afternoon he has been forced to spend his time listening to clueless officials and pompous politicians, how they intended to better the troops, and what exactly is going wrong just now. For of course, they know everything about policing and the aurors in general. Naturally.

Years of duty within the ministry have finally told him some restraint though, and so he has merely glared at the most ambitious and dumb ideas and kept his mouth shut. He still felt skittish and angry, when he was finally able to leave, so close to midnight, that he was fearing, he wouldn’t get a chance at all. Maybe his calendar won’t work anymore? Nobody can time potions that precisely.

When he arrives, barely a few minutes before midnight, he not even really looks at the potion with its yellowish, reddish, orange color, some people describe as salmon and just pours, worried, how it might turn out.

_The worry carries on, when he meets just darkness, warm, granted, soft too, comfortable. But… alone? Or not? He couldn’t say, until he feels a movement beside him, pale skin, pale hair, a monochromatic temptation, he can’t really see, merely sense. Warm skin, pressing against his own, for the first time so unguarded, so freely available. He lets his fingers hover over it, not daring to touch without permission, though eager to obtain it._

_The other leans over, catching his lips, his mouth, dancing and circling his tongue in slow-motion, willing it into the same entrancing motion. He has kissed rarely and never like this, breathlessly panting in the sparse moments, he can, then returning into the soft wetness with renewed fervor. It is overwhelmingly hot, even more so, when his hands get caught and placed firmly upon a headboard, with the order to hold on._

_He nods, lets it happen, when the other slides over him, naked, like he is, lets him feel the thinner, yet athletic body, the smooth skin, the weight, the… everything. The other’s hands hold onto his neck, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, then the mouth on his is gone, starting a journey, so similar to the one, the hands went on yesterday. After the experience, he knows, this is not going to resolve into a blowjob any time soon, or at all, if he isn’t lucky, but it is tempting and arousing and all in all perfect none the less. More so, probably. Feeling all the hot wetness on him, kisses, licks, small bites along his body, in places, he never assumed to be anything close to a erogenous zone. Now, they are, to his in equal parts shocked and delighted surprise. That tongue does small miracle without even trying. Every hum of appreciation raises goosebumps, every breath on wetted skin makes him arch, the muscles tensing on their own accord._

_He isn’t so close to losing himself as yesterday, this is more a comfort, less a torture, but it still keeps him very, very occupied, until the other’s body is back, pressed against his, the other’s tongue licking back into his mouth, conquering it once more, gasping, between the touches: “You are so beautiful, you take this so well. I love watching you.” The sentences chopped into single words, rasped out, until they lose any coherence, yet still swelling his heart with pride, though he couldn’t tell, why._

The way back, is less harsh this time, he feels the same warmth surrounding him, the same pleasant, relaxed arousal, anything but urgent. It must be deep at night by now, and he falls into his bed with relief, dreaming on, back into the vision.


	20. Praise

20\. Day: Praise

It’s not Christmas, if no one gets angry. If no one tumbles into a shouting match. If no one feels drained and unhappy afterwards, hiding in his room or, since they are older now, his own place. It is just not usually him. And he doesn’t even know, how this really happened. Only, that both Ron and Hermione are angry at him. Or hurt. Or whatever.

Yes, it is a valid point, that he dotes for their little ones, just barely refraining from getting carried away with his gifts. But it’s not like that is something new. And it’s not like he doesn’t ask permission first on the more interesting presents. Maybe he is immature, maybe he would understand them better, if he had his own kids, but since he can’t see that happen any time soon, he’d rather not argue about it. It’s not like he is unreasonable or something.

Granted, with all the people in and out of their flat and the Burrows, they are kind of stressed out. And granted too, with two children and a third on the way, they could really get some good night of sleep. Maybe it’s best to just apologize. No matter if he feels really sorry.

But now, back behind his doors, longed on his couch, he feels rather lonely. Maybe it is time for some more Christmas-non-Christmas events? The potion looks not very promising on first glance, dull black. But it starts sparkling, as his fingers touch it. Intriguing. And as he pours it, his brow furrowing, it all but dissolves into a shower of golden lights, each drop richly glossed over and warmly colored.

He watches the last falling and joins it, when it dissolves into the shimmering steam, that rises from the surface in the cauldron.

_Once again, it is too dark to really see, but just enough to make out some forms. Once again, it is comfortably warm. There is a faint smell of vanilla and maybe roses in the air, something appealingly bitter and musky, too. Once again, the other is there, right by his side, welcoming him with a kiss that makes him feel heavenly, although, considering the implications is probably better described as hellishly hot._

_How many different ways to get kissed are there? And how come, he experiences each of them in turn, just in a couple of days? When he opens his mouth, giving more access, the faint aroma of fire whiskey tickles in his throat, just a hint of it, and it makes him smile. It’s the kind, he fancies._

_The other’s mouth is now beside his ear, the voice like a lover’s caress. “There is something, I wanted to tell you. For a very long time. Years, really.” The breath tickles along his neck, blowing away his hair, just a bit. “I’ve been thinking of you.” So has half the world. And he has no idea at all, why this feels different. Why this isn’t just another case of misplaced idealization._

_A small laughter makes him flinch in the best possible way, hitching his breath on the way. “I hated your reputation almost as much as you do. But I couldn’t hate you.” What the hell… Why isn’t this awkward? Why does it still feel good?_

_He turns, stealing a kiss for himself, one, the other didn’t anticipate, one, that makes his counterpart gasp in pleasant surprise. “I have no idea, why I am still here and I am even more clueless, where this is leading, but please, go on.”_

_Instead, the other whispers breathily: “I want to touch you. And be touched. Today.”_

_And man, is he willing to follow through. For the first time, he is allowed to explore. Aimlessly, but eager his hands roam the other’s body, finding so many little secrets, while he is in turn already figured out, but all too willing to feel all over again. Sweet nothings are whispered into his ear. That he is beautiful. And how exactly. That his skin feels like a promise. The skin of a survivor, of someone strong, someone wild, someone hard and yet… someone soft too. That his eyes shine like spring leaves, that his hands are so gentle, that… He cannot even remember everything, but feels surrounded by appraisal, he does not deserve but appreciates none the less._

_To be honest, it says, I love you, in thousand different ways, without ever using the words. And he falls apart upon the realization. He has never really been loved. Not like that. And he doesn’t even know, who…_

Awaking, he cries. Cudgels his brain, who could be the man, who did not only go through all these lengths to make him feel this, but loves him, wants him, needs him like that. The man with pale skin and pale hair, tasting of fire whiskey and expensive soap, the man in his dreams, and judging by the way, they fit so perfectly together, of his dreams.


	21. Preparation

21\. Day: Preparation

So, it’s almost Christmas now, meaning, his social run of torture is about to start. He will need to visit his friends, one person or pair at a time, climaxing of course at Boxing Day, when the Burrows await, with too many people in too little space, too many presents, drinks, food… This is his last quiet day, without smudgy children’s handprints on his trousers, hugs and kisses that, ultimately, feel empty, because they cannot fill the void in his life, no matter how much everyone wishes, he would finally find someone.

As if it was that simple. It’s not only about feelings, it’s also about trust. He never even comes close to real relationships these days, after he had a few, ending in absolute disaster, when he realized, they were only in for it for the fame. It still hurts even thinking of it. Keeping distance is… easier. Less hurtful. It is lonesome, none the less.

And these occasions make him see, what he misses. It always leaves him in quiet anger and grim desperation. And by then… this year’s comforting balm will have withered away. Only 4 days, today included. It hurts, just to think of it, so he savors to still have it all day. He doesn’t even dare look at the four remaining potions, until late, just before bed, when darkness surrounds him like a blanket and the sounds from outside fall silent. Only then he takes the potion into his hands, turning it around and around, thinking, sad and yet eager. It has the rich yellow of beeswax candles or expensive oils and glows faintly. Very carefully he uncorks and pours it, inhaling the rich aroma of lavender and honey. Another moment of hesitation, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he needs to extend the time as much as possible, then he lets himself fall into the vision.

_He finds himself lying flat on his stomach on perfect, clean bedsheets, soft, smooth, slightly cool to the touch, not a single crinkle in the surface. There is a pillow beneath him, making placing his head more comfortable while slightly raising his backside. A hand is on his ankle, the soft voice, by now so familiar, requests: “Close your eyes. Relax.”_

_There is little else he can do. He stretches his shoulders, moves his head, until he can find a comfortable position, then breathes in and out and closes his eyes determinedly. “I’m ready.”_

_The other reaches for him, the hand gliding up his legs, a second hand accompanying it. The higher up they reach, the stronger he can smell the expensive massage oil on them. They, too, feel versant. He welcomes them on his thighs, on his buttocks on his back with willing sighs, allows himself to relax into their touch. From time to time, he can feel the other’s body too, each time sending a tingle through his spine. He would like to have that more, let the other sit above him, legs and groin pressed against him, while the hands keep working, but the other has different plans, keeps kneeling by his side._

_He tries, not to think too much, but soon enough, little gasps start tumbling from his lips, followed by words, he wouldn’t have dared think, even less so speak, only hours ago. Please, more, touch, love. There it is. Love. Can he really claim, it is only the touch, those firm hands, this lean body, he loves? Or is there more to it? The voice? The consideration? The… passion, the other inspires in him?_

_Clear lines of reality blur in face of this fantasy, this vision, this… everything. He could let go, he could. He should, he knows. But he won’t. He loves this too much, he wants it too much, he_ needs _it too much._

_He moans into the sheets, when the other turns the both their attention to more central matters. Cups his balls softly, moving them around, just slightly squeezing. Brushes by his cock, giving him just enough attention to keep him occupied, while the other hand…_

_Gods… He gasps, when he feels a slickened, hot finger circle his pucker, pushing just slightly, moving back and forth in the smallest of movements, until he isn’t sure anymore, if he is still outside or already…_ in _. The finger goes on teasing, slowly going_ deeper _, preparing him for_ more _. He writhes and squirms, unwillingly, making the other stop. Asking softly: “Are you ok? Shall I stop?”_

_He nods to the first, shakes his head to the second. Pants: “Just go on”, willing himself to push against the intruder, embedding it deeper. His spine flexes, arching his body once and again, a barely conscious movement. “More”, he pleads, not yet begging, but close, and the other obliges._

_Finally, finally moving between his legs, the body safely placed, touching everywhere, the other starts using a second finger, then a third, taking sweet time to open him up perfectly for the next step, only touching his weeping cock from time to time, but sending aftershocks through him, each time it happens. Oh god, he thinks, fuck me. Do it. Now. It’s not going to happen. Not today. All he can do, all he can hope for, is more of this… And it will be enough, has to be…_

Oh heaven’s… He would never have guessed, that this, this of all things would turn out to be the one fantasy that doesn’t even lets him sleep. He never thought of himself like that. And yet, the mere thought of the other’s body pressed against him, around him, _into_ him, makes him shiver with need. And thinking, it is almost over… Suddenly, he isn’t so sure, he wants fulfilment anytime soon. It would mean an end. He hates this to end. But… wait… remember… He leaves his bed, slipping back into the living room and rummages through all the things that have happened to be placed on the table in his living room since the start of November, until he finds the letter, reading it again. “You will know, who I am.” There is hope. If he wants it. If he wants… the other. If only he knew more. But, by now, there is more. And with counting out, what he knows by now, the Slytherin part, the knowledge of him, the things he experienced, the things, the other said, it dawns on him, although he cannot admit it yet, pondering on the thought, until sleep takes him.


	22. Bliss

22\. Day: Bliss

He is late again. At least, the reason is not that bad. Neville and Luna hat a night out with him, having mulled wine and treats in muggle London. It was nice, really. He still feels, both of them are the gentlest of his friends and have an almost instinctive understanding that family life just now isn’t, what he wants to see right now. So they organized a babysitter and they had a nice adult evening, both of them seemed to need almost as much as him.

In the end, Neville felt a little guilty for staying out so long, but both Luna and him reassured him, it was okay to have some fun now and then. It is hard for him to realize, of course, after all his grandma has done for him, but they manage to cheer him up and all in all, it’s a good evening.

If only it wasn’t so late already. Again, he manages only to get back a few minutes before midnight, pouring the milky colorless potion just in time. It’s almost a bit sad, he is in a hurry, as it explodes in all colors, whenever the liquid is moved. But its most important part is of course deeper, and he eagerly chases the vision.

_Within the moment he is back to where they stopped yesterday, crashing into the feeling of openness, of vulnerability and arousal. For a moment it is too much, he gasps, fighting against himself, to regain composure, fighting against the firm hands on his back and legs, to change his position. “Shh”, his counterparts voice sooths him and his hands draw gently calming circles onto his skin. Strangely, he feels protected and once again loved, full of trust and joy._

_Granted, those feeling soon pale against more urgent needs, but he can’t really regret that. The other’s hot body pressed against his, smooth skin, considerable strength, practiced and knowing hands, does that to him in no time at all. By now, the other knows exactly, how to push his buttons and does so with mastery, until he is panting and pleading all over again. This time not silently in his hand, but very vocally. “Please… Please…” Soon with continued urgency: “Fuck me, please…”_

_“Not yet”, the other whispers and kisses his back all over again, moving slowly up and up and up, until he can bite his nape teasingly. His counterpart takes his sweet time, making him wait and pant and beg, before he eventually positions himself just right._

_He groans, when the other pushes, ever so slightly. Miniscule movements, forwards and back, so he can’t really feel him go deeper. He digs his hands into the sheets, disturbing the perfect surface and groans, pushing back, begging to go on. Finally, the other has mercy on him and answers, splits him open, so softly, the sweet pain only adds to the pleasure. He cries out, and this time, there is no mistaking, what he feels, words, tumbling from his lips, without any grasp of meaning, but meaningful all the same. The other moves on him, with him, in him, and it feels… incredible. Full and complete, hot and cold, full of promises fulfilled. He tries to hold on, remembering the rules, they agreed on, but it’s so hard. And when the other reaches around, cupping his balls first, then his cock, he can’t take it anymore. He pleads, he doesn’t want to disappoint again, but the reaction is quite opposite to his anticipation._

_“Come for me”, the other whispers. “Come for me.” And he does. Arching his back, until the back of his head almost touches the other’s shoulder, the white spunk spurting over the innocent pillow, crying out a name… one name… knowing, if it is the wrong one, it is all over, yet not caring anymore. “Draco.”_

_The other, always in control, on any other occasion yet, can’t take it. The feeling, the view, the… everything, and spills, too. The pumping movements adding another layer of content, knowing, he, and he alone could make his counterpart lose it. He falls back onto the sheets, spent. Pants helplessly, like a puppet with cut strings. The other’s body is splayed over his back and he enjoys it, feeling all the small movements, realizing, how much he missed the presence of a lover in his bed. This lover in particular might be a very special case, someone, he would never thought of. But feeling so perfectly safe and satiated, loved and appreciated, does it really matter? Or rather… does he really care?_

He stays on his couch thinking until the morning. Is it true? Can it be true? His past self would deny everything. But his past self died on a battlefield. His present self, grown over long hard years of self-control, of moving on, although it seemed impossible, of building a whole new life out of the ruins, believes in different things, knows different limits. And believes. Wants to believe. For this is the one lover, who would never love his questionable fame. Only him.


	23. Cleaning

23.Day: Cleaning

The 23. is as surely reserved for Ron’s and Hermione’s kids as Christmas eve is for his godson Teddy. Both occasions are as immovable as mountains, both occasions are both full of joy and of pain. It’s fun to play with them, and it gets better the older they get. But it’s also very, very straining. Sometimes, he asks himself, if he would be parent-material at all, despite the continued assurance from his friends that “one grows into it” and “it is better than it looks”.

Maybe with the right partner and at the right time… For now, being the cool uncle is quite enough, at least, when more than an afternoon of babysitting is at stake. So it’s no surprise he is quite done, once he finally gets home. All he wants is some silence and a good shower and… well… what is there to expect from the second last potion, a swirl of baby blue and damped pink, like baby clothing or… soap?

It can’t possibly contain the ecstasy of yesterday and anyways, he isn’t sure, he could take that right now. On the other hand… He wants, no needs to know, the other is still there. Still interested. He needs to know, if he guessed right. Or if he terribly messed up. With a worried gulp he decides to pour the potion anyways, willing himself into going on, no matter how hard the decision. If he doesn’t, he will never know.

_It’s warm and damp, the air is so full of steam, he can’t see all of it in the beginning. Through the clouds, the tiles, plastered on the walls of the bathroom are mere shades of blue and green. The same goes for the remaining interior, the tub, the shower, even the milky windows, shining from outside sunlight. But he can see, when the door opens, and the other comes through, no more hiding in the shadows._

_He is taken aback._

_There is no attribute usually addressed to men to describe his counterpart. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Breathtakingly stunning. Slender, yet well-muscled, the hair slightly longer than it used to be and hanging free where it used to be slicked back. The face, the hands, everything, really, resembles the boy that had been, but is so different, grown up, adult._

_There is none of the scowl of once, it is replaced by abashment and something familiar to… hope? Without hesitation, the other draws near, placing hands on his upper arms, turning him around confidently._

_He lets it happen, arching the neck, not to lose contact with the stormy grey eyes, while the other slowly lets his hands glide over his skin, carefully following the lines of muscle and bone. A kiss is placed on his nape, another on his spine, his shoulder blade. It tickles, makes him breathe faster. The other reaches for something, before slowly guiding him under the shower, starting the soft spray, as soon as they both are placed. The drops fall softly, less like a sprinkler, more like rain, thoroughly drenching them in warm water. The other, no… it’s not fair to think that any more, Draco starts applying soap to his body, soaking his body in clean foam, his senses in scents of wood and citrus. He finds himself trusting, closes his eyes, relishing the moment, deeply inhaling. It is quite strange to feel his companion reach out for his hair, lathering it up and then, tipping his head back, washing the shampoo away._

_To his genuine, but joyful surprise, it’s his turn then, touching, stroking, caressing. He takes his time to explore the delicious body before him with growing interest. He wished, he could do more than that, but doesn’t even try to overstep. When he goes to his knees, looking up at Draco, it’s only, so he can clean all of him… for now._

As aroused, almost ragingly so, he felt yesterday, as soft and tender he feels today. He tries to remember the hatred, the jealousy, the anger, he once held, but finds them blown away by time and better knowledge. Finds the sins of a boy forgivable, the offer of the man tempting. He however starts to ask himself, how much Draco really invested in this, for there is more than a bit of potion-making needed, to understand him that completely without even asking.


	24. Ink

24\. Day: Ink

Meeting with Teddy is always special. He resembles both his parents in terms so much. And though he was never particularly close to either of them, they and in turn Teddy mean a lot to him. In a way, Andromeda Tonks paved the way for that, she is so much of a mother figure, less intrusive than Molly, yet, perceptive enough to see, something is up with him.

She doesn’t pry, just lets him have his time with the boy. She even accompanies them, though in distance, when they have a trip to Diagon Alley to watch all the shops in their best Christmas decorations. Of course, Teddy jumps from one wish for Christmas to the next, his eyes and heart on his tongue, but he is prepared for that, it’s not the first year of that. He has already purchased the best Christmas gift and knows, it will be well received. Tomorrow. In Andromeda’s household, the biggest presents are reserved for Boxing Day.

When he gets home, he takes in the now rather depressing sight of his advent calendar. 23 empty bottles, and the remaining in a dull blue. And what, in all heavens could it contain? What could top the last two days? What could complete this all to perfect present? He still pours it, once he is at home, and not too late, really. Maybe he needs to get the disappointment done?

_There is nothing around him but darkness, himself standing in a single puddle of light, a scroll in his hand. As he unrolls it, the words start appearing on it, elaborately written by an invisible quill in a decorative, if a little too flamboyant hand, one especially exaggerating, considering the rather simple text:_

_The silver wand,_

_Magical recipes and experiences_

_Diagon Alley 10_

_9 o’clock_

Dammit, it’s almost 8. He isn’t sure why, but he _is_ sure, he wants keep that appointment, despite being tired, despite being unprepared, despite not knowing, how this will end. Hastily he gets a shower, dresses in what counts as his best outfit these days – no matter how much he tries, he never really grasped this fashion thing – and tries to tame his hair, which turns out as usual: fruitless. Doubting he eyes himself in the mirror, seeing the disaster he is and always was and shrugs. It’s not, as if the person, he is about to meet doesn’t know. And tried anyways.

Besides, he lacks the time to do something major about it, so it has to stay just like it always was. Another shrug to his mirror image, then he apparates, just in time.


	25. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

A steward awaits him in the small, rather inconspicuous shop, with the unassuming front. He bows deep and ushers his guest into the backroom and towards a portkey, politely waiting, until Harry has safely grabbed it, before activating it.

When the whirling sensation of being transported ceases, he looks around, finding himself on a quite high rooftop, shielded with several charms against the wind and cold, offering an unrivalled view over London. In its center, a single table is set with expensive dishes and cutlery, two sets only. And on the other side… the real unrivalled view of the day. Draco Malfoy, all fashioned beauty, in the same cold perfection, he remembers, but wearing a smile that is anything but that. It is broken and scared, sheepish and insecure. “I feared, you wouldn’t come”, he all but whispers.

Harry smiles. “I have been called a lot in my time. But never impolite.” He feels abashed too, a blushing creeping up his cheeks. But then again… After all they have shared over the last days, they surely can share a meal. And start to find out, if this adventure can continue. His heart flutters, when he sits down, but his face lights up with the candles. After this gift received, he will surely find a gift to return.

He smiles after the first witty remark, answers alike, shares a thought of himself, finding it comfortable to just talk and talk and talk. He doesn’t find his way home this evening. Around them, on the rooftop, the sun rises, and they barely notice.

When he goes home, it is with an enchanted little card, telling him all about how to contact back, whenever he likes. And he will. He most certainly will.


End file.
